


We Built Another World

by Lila82



Series: Shine a Light [2]
Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lila82/pseuds/Lila82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As they head towards Terminus, Beth and Daryl confront their truths.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Built Another World

 

* * *

 

There’s a rhythm to the road, a silent code of signals and signs that begin to make up his world.

Beth takes the lead the morning after the cabin, one hand hovering over the hilt of her knife. Her eyes scan the horizon, ears open to any break in the constant quiet. 

Something catches her eye and she halts in her tracks. Daryl starts towards her but she holds up one hand, takes a few steps forward on her newly healed ankle and slips the knife from its sheath. 

It’s just a plastic bag rippling in the breeze, but Beth examines it all the same, pokes it with a stick and checks the dirt for signs of walkers’ plodding steps.

His finger itches on the trigger and his brow feels sweaty; waiting makes the tension in his shoulders actually ache, but he forces himself to stand down until she silently beckons him forward. 

Daryl lowers the bow, follows her lead as she continues down the tracks. 

He chokes down the knot of pride tightening in his chest.

 

* * *

 

The walk is long, but the weather is turning and the air is cool. Daryl doesn’t miss the days when a layer of sweat was a constant companion.

Beth fills the space with questions, even if she won’t talk about her time away. “What were they like?” 

It’s the afternoon and Daryl’s on point so he doesn’t turn, just shrugs his shoulders and scans the horizon. “Who?”

“The gang you joined. What were they like?”

The question is heavy and he focuses on the pile of walkers up ahead. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious is all.”

He narrows his gaze to look for movement. Nothing so far. But the question hangs in the air and he knows she won’t let it go. “It was like being with my brother again,” he finally says, forces the words out flat. Merle was Merle, but his death is still fresh.

Beth’s voice is quiet, laced with grief. “It’s okay to miss him,” she says. 

“It ain’t the same,” he says because it’s not: Herschel was a good man, Maggie a good woman. He can’t say the same for the man his brother turned out to be. He knows she’s going to say something sweet, something meant to comfort even if it lacks a grain of truth, so he changes the subject and pulls away to continue down the tracks. “Sing something for me.”

For once she doesn’t push the issue and her voice is gentle and true as she softly croons. 

_Leaning, leaning, safe and secure from all alarms_  
 _Leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms._

“You know it?”

He nods, hears his voice go soft as he falls into the past. “It was one of my mama’s favorites.”

“I’d sing it to myself when I was away. I didn’t picture him though. I pictured you.”

Daryl doesn’t say anything. He’s never had someone believe in him like this. Beth comes up behind him, just enough to lay her hand on his shoulder. “I knew it was you that was gonna bring me home.”

Her words dig deep and he relaxes into her, feels his shoulders slump as her forehead presses against his spine. 

He stares at the tracks ahead. He’ll still do anything to bring her home.

 

* * *

 

They scour the dead as they trek down the road.

“You could have stayed,” Beth says in late afternoon. She’s on her knees rifling through a walker’s pockets. They’re looking for a gun to balance out her knife and while he’s found a lighter for his efforts, they’ve come up short on anything else of use. She’s been humming under her breath most of the day, but hasn’t said much. He knows she’s biding her time; it’s not like her not to press. “If they had cars, they would have had weapons too,” she continues, lowers her lashes like she suddenly finds the blood and guts fascinating. “I would have understood.”

Daryl stares at her, but she keeps her head bent, hair all lit up in the near dark. She won’t look at him even when he starts talking. “Hey, hey,” he says, not to lift her mood but because it’s the truth – he never considered giving her up. “You and me? We’re a team. Wasn’t no way I was gonna leave you behind.”

She finally looks at him through those long lashes, a thin smile curving her lips. “Good.”

“Good?”

She holds out her hand and he takes it, pulls her to her feet. “Back at the cabin you said the prison was your fault, but it wasn’t. Those people who took me aren’t on you either. I knew you’d come for me. That’s the only part that matters.”

She’s looking at him now, really looking at him, and he realizes that he’s still holding her hand. Her fingers are long and thin, so delicate he could crush them in his fist, and her skin is too soft for a girl living off the land. He drops her hand quick and sticks his into his pockets. He needs to stop touching her. He needs to think.

But she smiles at him and he can feel his skin flush clear up to the tips of his ears. “C’mon,” he says, cocks his head towards the rails. “We’re losing the light.”

She nods and sheathes her knife, waits for him to take the lead. His steps are steady. He knows she’ll follow him all the way.

 

* * *

 

Beth keeps learning the bow.

Daylight is reserved for walking so they practice at night. They’re sleeping on the tracks, out in the open, and the moon casts just enough light to frame a target. They pull a walker from the rails and he’s dead, long gone to a truth death, and Beth doesn’t comment as Daryl tacks him up to a rail post.

There’s no game this time or fun in it and Beth takes a deep breath as she heaves the bow to her shoulder. It’s not easy pulling on the strings and Beth tries her hardest but can’t get her aim quite right.

Daryl stands back and lets her fight through, but she needs more than her knife to keep breathing. There are no guns, but there’s him. He comes up behind her and wraps his arms around her.

He thinks it will be like last time. It’s nothing like last time. 

There’s no moonshine and his mind is clear. Her skin is still soft and her head fits just right under his chin. When he tightens his arms around her she doesn’t push back. 

“You’ll get it,” he says as he re-angles the bow. “Once you build up your strength it won’t be no problem.”

She flexes her arms against his. “I’ve always been a string bean. It will be nice to have some muscle.”

“A girl with guns, huh?”

Her voice is filled with easy laughter. “Of course!”

The mood is easy too and he can’t help shifting closer, chest against her back and hips pressed together. He scrapes his hands over hers to align the bow just right.

Beth gasps, just a quick intake of breath, but the night’s too quiet to hide it. “You okay?” he asks. It’s been a week but he doesn’t want to push her if she’s not ready.

“Uh huh,” she says, turns to the target and aims.

She misses the first time and the second, third, and fourth, but he keeps his hands over hers, keeps them steady, and on the fifth try the walker is missing an eye. 

Beth whoops, eyes lit up with joy. “I’m getting good at this,” she laughs and for a moment, Daryl’s heart drops into his stomach, because he remembers the cemetery and he remembers the trap and he remembers the fear that lodged in his chest because he thought he might never see her again. But Beth is laughing and he’s smiling a bit and she’s looking at him, really looking, eyes all bright and blue. 

“What?” he says, doesn’t like the way she’s watching him, like she can see right through him.

“Nothing,” she insists, ducks her head so he can’t see her eyes.

“No, what?” he presses. They haven’t talked more about her time away. He knows how long old wounds linger. He hopes he didn’t rip hers open.

“You know,” she finally says, voice soft and unsure, like the Beth he met back on the farm.

It takes a minute for him to see the situation for what it is: Beth pressed up against him, his hands resting low on her hips. 

“Oh,” is all he can say, drops his hands and lets go. She doesn’t reach for him.

She doesn’t meet his gaze either as he bends to retrieve the bow and when he returns to camp she’s sitting with her back against a tree, knife clutched in her hand.

“I’ll take first watch,” she says as he ducks under the line of cans.

Daryl nods, turns his back on her, needs to put space between them, needs to get away from those eyes that see too much. He rolls himself into his blanket and tries to sleep. 

He can feel her eyes on him all night long.

 

* * *

 

Beth spots the sign the next day, a message from her sister written in death. 

“Maggie,” she breathes, stops in her tracks and stares at the wall. The blood is brown and dry, but not too old. It wasn’t a day or more that Maggie passed through.

She grabs his arm as he comes up beside her, nails digging even through the thick flannel. “Well, look at that,” he says. “Guess there are good people left in the world.”

Beth laughs, one of those laughs that’s full of tears, and soon he’s smiling too. 

There’s home at the end of the line.

 

* * *

 

They have a mission now, a real purpose, and they take a detour to scavenge supplies. 

The first house is a bust, the second too, and the third doesn’t have any guns but it has food on the shelves and a pump out back. They exchange a glance before heading inside, the funeral parlor fresh in their minds, but he raises the bow and props one shoulder against the front door. 

“We’ll be careful this time,” he promises and she nods, slides the knife from its sheath.

“I trust you,” she says and it’s all the permission he needs. The door slams open and they pause on the threshold, brace themselves for whatever’s on the other side. 

The house is empty, ransacked, but clear of walkers. They don’t hold out hope this time for strangers with friendly faces and quickly fill packs with food and a first aid kit and winter gear. 

Daryl’s scouting the perimeter when he hears Beth’s squeal. He’s not sure he’s ever run so fast, or wanted to punch something so badly, as when he finds her in the bathroom surrounded by all kinds of girly crap.

“There’s shampoo!” She’s too busy sorting through the bottles to notice the look on his face and he’s grateful for the extra moment to take a deep breath, feel the tightness ease from his chest. She finally looks up from her score. “Daryl, we can take a bath!”

He feels his face flush again and keeps his eyes firmly locked on the ground. He knows what she means, but still – water and bare skin and Beth. His pants are tight too. “I’m gonna head out front,” he manages to say, still won’t meet her eyes. 

She’s quicker than he thinks and her fingers lock around his forearm. “No way. You’re next.” 

“I’m fine.”

She stares up at him, hair tangled around her face. “You smell. We both smell. Who knows the next time we’ll be able to get clean.”

Her eyes are wide and blue and pleading. He knows he ain’t saying no now. “Alright.” 

She turns back to her collection and he stalks to the porch, works his arms near to their breaking point with the bow. He cocks another bolt and lets it fly. 

The tension in his chest eases, but his skin still feels tight.

 

* * *

 

Beth makes dinner while it’s his turn in the tub. The water isn’t warm, but it’s clean and he can admit, it’s nice pushing his hair off his face without his fingers coming back caked in grease.

Her eyes are wide when he sits down at the table and she pauses in stirring canned peaches into their oatmeal. “What?” he asks, rests the bow against the table leg.

Her gaze is locked on his face and the wet hair pushed back from his forehead. She shakes her head and turns back to their food. “I could cut your hair,” she offers. “Be easier to see if it’s out of your eyes.”

He’s tempted. There’s a mirror in the bathroom and he took a long hard look at himself, saw his resemblance to shaggy dog. But a haircut means Beth’s fingers in his hair, touching his head, running down the line of his neck.

He shakes his head and picks up his bowl, tips the oatmeal into his mouth. “Not this time.”

Beth watches him as he slurps down the first mouthful of food. It’s sickly sweet, but a still a nice change from charred meat. “Use a spoon.”

He looks at her over the edge of his bowl. “Doin’ fine, thanks.”

She keeps pressing. “You can put on a show for everyone else, but this is me. Let’s be civilized, just for one night.”

There’s also paper napkins and boiled water in real glasses and she’s wearing a clean shirt, her hair pulled back into a simple knot at the nape of her neck. He’s suddenly aware of the dirt beneath his fingernails, the way his legs are splayed under the table. And she’s right – none of it is keeping her away.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says and picks up the spoon. 

She can’t hide her smile over the rim of her glass.

 

* * *

 

The house has more than one bedroom, but they still sleep together. 

“Safety in numbers,” Beth says as she props a chair under the door handle. Daryl glances at her as he hacks the legs off a chair and wedges them between the window and frame. Easy for them to get out, harder for someone else to get in. 

“Something like that,” Daryl says and makes a show of scanning the backyard while Beth slips out of her clothes and into their bed. 

She doesn’t have to prompt him to take his boots off, but the rest of it is a surprise. “You know what it’s like rubbing up against those pants?” She’s propped on an elbow in the bed, covers thrown back while she watches him.

“You just wanna get me out of my clothes,” he says before he can remember to shut up. Yet, he doesn’t stop unbuttoning his shirt.

She doesn’t blush and her gaze doesn’t falter. “Something like that.”

He turns so she can’t see yet another flush creeping up his neck and tugs off the pants with a mighty heave. She scoots forward as he nears the bed and he slides up behind her, sucks in a breath as their hips mash together. She’s wearing just a t-shirt and her skin is soft, her legs long as they tangle around his calves.

“Night,” she whispers and burrows in tighter, settles into the curve of his body.

He falls asleep to the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin, her heart beating in time with his.

 

* * *

 

They make it through the night without incident but she’s quiet the next morning, doesn’t even groan when he shakes her awake at dawn.

She’s silent still during breakfast, pushes around her leftover oatmeal and works her lower lip between her teeth.

“Cat got your tongue, girl?” He misses her chatter, the sweet song of her voice breaking up so much empty space.

“Do you think we’ll find them?”

He pushes aside his bowl, takes in her face. It’s only a moment or so from falling. “Think so. Your sister’s roadmap will help.”

She nods but her mouth still trembles. “Sometimes I don’t want to find them. Things are good enough. What if it’s asking too much?”

Daryl doesn’t have much use for god, not the god of this world, but he still manages to find the words. She’s held him up enough. He can do the same for her. “No shame in wanting your family back.” 

“I want a lot of things,” she whispers, so low he almost doesn’t catch it, but soft enough that he can ignore it. 

He wants things too. Doesn’t mean he’s going to get them.

 

* * *

 

She cuts his hair before they leave.

“You’ve taught me so much,” she insists. “Let me do this one thing for you.”

He lost the will to argue with her weeks ago and lets her lead him to a chair and drape a sheet over his shoulders. 

It’s exactly how he imagined: her hands in his hair, her breath blowing warmly across the back of his neck, feeling like he wants to crawl out of his own skin. 

He’s never been more grateful to get back on the road.

 

* * *

 

They haven’t been walking an hour before there’s a three-inch gash in his shoulder.

It happened when they met a pack of walkers. Beth has a scrape on her palm but he got caught in a bit of barbed wire and it sliced clear through the layers of clothes and skin.

Beth is worried as she digs through her pack for the first aid kit, but he’s not so concerned. It’s deep, but not bleeding too bad. A few stitches and he’ll be good as new.

“You could have tetanus,” Beth says as she sanitizes a needle with the lighter.

“Nothing to do about it now.” Daryl shrugs and wishes he didn’t. The slight motion makes his skin feel afire but not in a good way, not how it feels when Beth starts tugging on the buttons of his shirt.

“I can’t fix you up if I can’t see the cut.” All the air leaves the world. The wound is on his shoulder. It means showing his back. “Daryl,” she says softly, turns his chin so he has to meet her gaze. She shoves up the sleeve of her shirt and he can see it, a dark red line across the inside of her wrist. “I’m marked too.”

Her eyes are bright and blue as they lock with his, soft and warm but lacking pity. He bites down the snarl, undoes the buttons with shaking fingers. 

She’s gentle as she swabs the gash with alcohol, breathes against his skin to ease the sting, binds him together with neat, precise stitches. “All better,” she says as she smoothes a bandage over his back. 

His eyes slide closed. It’s not just the wound that’s healing.

 

* * *

 

They make a tent from tarps and blankets they scavenged and it’s no bed, but better than sleeping in the wide open.

Beth sits behind him as she checks the cut in the light of the campfire, her fingers brushing feather light over his bare skin. 

He sucks in a breath as her hands slide away from his shoulder. “Tell me about the tattoos,” she says, traces the pattern with long, slim fingers.

He knows better than to shrug so he focuses on keeping his voice even. “Devil you know and all.”

“Were they for Merle?”

“To remind me,” he says, barely recognizes the rasp in his voice. “Where I came from, who I am…”

“You’re a good man,” she whispers. Her hair brushes his neck and her hands slide down his sides and then she’s pressing her mouth to the torn skin of his back.

There’s a groan and Daryl knows it’s his, but he can’t move even as she slides into his lap and wraps her arms around his neck. “You might not have been before, but you are now.” She dips her head. “I don’t need a mark to remind me.” 

She kisses him and he knows he should push her away because she’s young and he’s a Dixon and it’s all so very wrong.

Except he likes the way her breasts fit into the planes of his chest and the low moan that escapes her lips. He brings his hands up to tangle in her hair and deepens the angle of their mouths.

He doesn’t need another tattoo. She’s already branded on his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> So I can’t stop writing Beth/Daryl. Or listening to “Apologies to the Queen Mary.” Happy 2005, right? Thank you so much for your support for “Dear Sons and Daughters of Hungry Ghosts.” Title also courtesy of Wolf Parade. Enjoy.


End file.
